Lost and Found Family

by Leigh Riker

  In those last moments in the barn, she’d neglected Owen, and she’d let him die. Baby killer.

  Christian pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her...but he didn’t contradict her.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  STANDING IN HIS mother’s kitchen, Christian watched Emma work, her still-slim form graceful as she carried out his mother’s newest order.

  As she did each Thanksgiving, Frankie directed traffic all around her like a cop in a busy intersection, telling Rafe to place the bowl of sweet potatoes on the dining room table, reminding Grace of how to fold the napkins. She turned to her husband. “Lanier, you’re carving that turkey, not hacking it to pieces. Thinner slices, please.”

  No one dared to counter her. The electric knife whizzed through the turkey’s golden breast again and Christian decided to disappear. In the dining room he helped Emma polish a few spots off the wineglasses, then check the ice in the bucket before chilling a bottle of his father’s favorite oaked chardonnay. Christian suppressed a shudder. Like hunting, his dad’s choice of wine wasn’t appealing to him. But he was determined to get through this holiday meal—even when his shoulder bumped Emma’s and she moved away.

  The whole house, which was already partially decked out for Christmas, had an air of forced gaiety. The big tree would go up tomorrow, and everyone would be expected to help with the decorations. His mother always held a family party then, in part so everyone could enjoy her leftover turkey-with-all-the-trimmings casserole.

  The traditional wreath hung on the front door, tastefully lit at night for all to see. On the table sat the centerpiece, its leaves of silk in orange and gold and russet brown glowing in the light from ivory tapers. However, the lush foliage and the candles, shining in crystal hurricane lanterns, blocked his view of Grace and Rafe.

  As they did each Thanksgiving, Christian’s parents sat at either end of the long walnut table. Its many extension leaves weren’t needed today, but years ago there’d been grandparents, aunts and uncles present, and lots of cousins. They were grown-up now and had their own families. Or they were much older, no longer able to come for the holiday, or they were gone.

  Today there was another place that shouldn’t have been empty. Last year Owen had sat between him and Emma while grace was being said. It was his daughter’s turn for the prayer this year, but Christian didn’t hear the words.

  As conversation resumed, piled-high platters and overflowing bowls were passed around, yet it was as if everyone had vowed not to mention last Thanksgiving. Silver serving spoons clanked against china. His father uncorked the wine and began pouring. This year he didn’t need to make a Shirley Temple for Owen, which was really too much sugar that had kept him awake all night. Outside, someone roared past on a motorcycle, its throaty engine shattering the should-have-been festive moment.

  Christian frowned at his full plate. Maybe, like last Christmas, and his and Emma’s anniversary, they should have let this holiday pass. He wasn’t sure he could manage to eat a bite of his mother’s succulent turkey.

  All Christian could envision now was Owen, sitting on a cushion at the table beside him, trying to practice his manners as his grandmother had instructed. Last year he’d been old enough to eat with the grown-ups, she’d told him, as long as he behaved like a gentleman. She’d said the same thing to Christian more times than he could remember. Then she’d reprimanded Owen for chewing with his mouth open—it had only been for an instant—and Owen had started to cry. Christian had gathered him close, a hand on his silky hair, while Emma murmured to him, but he’d only picked at his food after that and avoided looking at his grandmother.

  I didn’t do anything, he’d said, his voice clogged with tears.

  Shh, it’s all right. The words Emma always used.

  His eyes met hers for a moment. But to his relief another small buzz of conversation had picked up. His mother provided cheerful, or poignant, updates of other relatives who couldn’t be here. Then, still oblivious to Christian’s growing tension, she brought up the foundation’s launch event.

  “Those brochures will turn out well, don’t you think, Emma?”

  Before she could answer, Christian chimed in. If he didn’t say something, sooner or later his mother would realize how quiet he’d been. “We wanted to set the right tone. The foundation is hopeful, forward-looking, and...well, youthful.”

  The last word killed the subject as quickly as it had come up. Christian focused on his plate. So did the others with more clanking of sterling silverware that his mother’s “cleaning girls” had polished to a high sheen.

  Rafe glanced around the table. “As long as we’re all together, Grace and I have something to tell you. We’ve sold my condo—as of a few days ago—and last night we bought ourselves a house, assuming the paperwork goes through.”

  “Your bid was accepted? Hear, hear,” his father said, raising his glass. “A toast to Grace and Rafael. Happy new home.”

  Except for Emma, who took a single sip, everyone drank. Grace had been allowed one glass, even though she was still underage, for Thanksgiving. Her eyes were shining, and she seemed to like Lanier’s favorite chardonnay. She grinned at Christian, as if to say, See? I’m an adult now with a home of my own. With my husband.

  Christian set his glass down. Should he make the announcement about the baby, too? Right now? But Emma laid a hand on his arm, as if in warning.

  Unable to sit still any longer, he rose to his feet. The family’s silence on this subject had gone on long enough. He lifted his glass.

  “Today,” he said at last, “I—Emma and I—want to congratulate our daughter and her husband.” He actually liked the way Rafe treated her, the way he kept her close and seemed to have eyes only for her. He respected the way he treated the General, the way he did his job. Christian had been wrong about him. “This is Rafe’s first Thanksgiving with us. Welcome to the family, Rafe.” But when everyone had sipped their wine again, he didn’t sit down. “We have many blessings to celebrate today but for three years before this, there was laughter and teasing at this table. Last year...we all had Owen to fill any empty spaces.”

  “Christian,” Emma said. Every person at the table had gone rigid.

  He shrugged off her touch. “I need to say this. Because for eleven months now we’ve all tried to go on with our lives when we really can’t. This isn’t just any Thanksgiving.” He looked at Emma. “It’s the first Thanksgiving without our son.” He glanced at his parents. “Without your grandson, whose picture is missing from your gallery just as he’s missing today from this table.” He met Grace’s gaze. “It’s the first year without your half brother. To Owen...” His tone thickened. “My son. I love you with all my heart. I always will.”

  His father coughed. Eyes cast down, he lifted his glass again.

  “To Owen,” he murmured.

  Christian’s mother looked rigid. Without a sound, she set her fork beside her plate, but down the length of the table his father’s gaze was steely. “No, Frankie,” he said, as if she might rise from the table, then leave the room.

  Grace was weeping into her hands. At first Christian couldn’t understand what she was saying. “He’s not here,” she choked, “because of me.”

  * * *

  EMMA FELT AS if the words “oh, no” were written on her forehead. She’d been trying so hard to pretend that today was like any other holiday. Yes, she’d struggled that morning with another bout of nausea, but in the kitchen she’d fought that down to put the finishing touches on the relish tray Frankie had assigned her.

  Her mother-in-law had produced a feast to rival Martha Stewart—until Christian had upset everyone’s careful balance.

  Thank goodness he hadn’t said, we’re pregnant. She pushed back her chair, dropping her damask napkin on the table beside her plate. Her meal half finished, she left the dining room.
Emma marched across the broad front hall and up the stairs, bent upon finding a moment alone in the guest room. She went in and shut the door.

  A second later it opened.

  “You left Grace crying,” Christian said.

  Emma sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. “I didn’t know what to say. I’m sorry she blames herself.”

  Christian leaned against the closed door.

  “Why can’t she see that was my fault—mine to deal with. I learned very early in life to take care of myself because no one else would.” She heard the break in her own voice. “Sometimes, when my mother left, she didn’t come home for days. How could I not deal with what happened to Owen on my own?”

  “Emma.”

  She knew she’d hurt him; he should’ve been the one she relied on, as Grace had with Rafe downstairs, like Frankie and Lanier. But it was Emma who’d taken Christian’s son, their son, from them. “I’m the one who broke things. I’m the one who has to fix them...if they can be fixed.”

  “You think that’s what Owen would want? For his mama to lock all of this up inside, for us to block each other out—without ever talking through the loss we’ve felt for almost a year?”

  She could barely speak. Every vestige of hope was gone. “I was his mother! It was my job—my responsibility—to give him a normal life, to keep him safe.” She swallowed. “Because of me, he got that stool, climbed up to unlatch the stall door, then slipped inside. He only wanted to feed his gummy bears to the General—but because of a stupid phone call, I left that barn and let him... He...” She couldn’t go on.

  “Sometimes life isn’t normal. You just said so. You learned that as a kid when your mother abandoned you over and over again. She cared more for her own pleasure than she did for you, and I despise her for that. If she were still alive, I’d tell her so. But she’s not and she’s not you, and you know what I hate even more?”

  Emma couldn’t answer. She stood in the center of the room like a defendant on trial, already knowing the verdict. She saw it in Christian’s eyes.

  “I hate that we haven’t been able to help each other—”

  “Because there isn’t any help! We wanted him so much and I took that away from you,” she said. “How can I bring another child into this world? As if anyone could replace Owen.”

  “This baby is not a replacement.”

  “Of course not, but any social worker would take it from me as they should have taken me from my mother.” She wrung her hands. “I can’t face that—the same way you quit your job to get away from everything, from us...but even behind the wheel of your truck, the memories go with you, don’t they, Christian? At seventy miles an hour, you’re still standing still. You’re in Neutral.”

  His jaw had tightened. “If that’s so, all your attempts to make life ‘normal’ again are only another way of running from yourself, Emma.” His voice rose. “Yes. You did take that phone call. You did leave Owen in the barn by himself. And—yes—I did blame you. I still do!”

  She sagged onto the bed. “Is this what we’ve come to, then?” She buried her face in her hands. “This terrible impasse?”

  Emma squared her shoulders, then stood again. She couldn’t look at Christian, though she could hear him breathing, sense him still leaning against the closed door. But she didn’t know how to change what had happened and there was nothing left to say. She started for the door.

  Before she got there, he straightened. “Stay. Tell yourself whatever makes you feel ‘normal,’ Em. Even pretend—all over again—that you’re not pregnant. I’m taking Bob out of that kennel and going home. I don’t care if I have to make coffee tomorrow morning over an open fire in the backyard. I can’t stay here.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  BLEARY-EYED, EMMA drank her first cup of coffee while she tidied Frankie’s kitchen. Then she took a dusting rag and, after a brief detour to pick up someone’s left-behind jacket in the front hall and hang it in the closet, she went into the living room.

  After the debacle that had been Thanksgiving Day, this was one way for Emma to apologize. She hadn’t meant to leave the table so abruptly, as if to prove she had no manners, but Emma was still trying to absorb the fact that she was soon to be a mother again. A year ago that would have sent her over the moon. She and Christian had been talking about having another child when the accident happened. They hadn’t wanted Owen to be much older before he had a sibling.

  This morning she’d heard Lanier go out to the kennels to tend to his dogs, but Emma hadn’t seen Frankie yet. After a sleepless night she wasn’t eager to open No More Clutter; by now the malls would be filled with Black Friday shoppers hunting for bargains and she wouldn’t have much business. She could take time to gather herself. Think how to approach Christian after what they’d said to each other.

  She also had a jittery stomach and some faint, low-down cramps. Nothing serious, just part of the fallout from yesterday, she tried to tell herself.

  Emma moved a silver-framed picture of Frankie and Lanier on an end table. She dusted the gleaming surface, then replaced the picture exactly where it had been. If she didn’t, Frankie would be sure to notice. Emma had once moved a crystal bell from one table to another and Frankie had gone ballistic.

  She’d almost finished dusting when the morning light shifted and, through the broad windows that showcased Frankie’s view from Lookout Mountain, she noticed a definite smear on the otherwise sparkling glass. Most of the time it wouldn’t be visible, but right now it stood out like a neon sign. Probably she’d need some window cleaner from Frankie’s utility closet but...let’s see what the rag can do first.

  With the cloth poised in one hand, Emma paused to enjoy the gorgeous view. You could see Mallory Trucking from here and—

  “Stop!” Frankie rushed into the room, shouting when, as a rule, she never raised her voice. “I’ve told my cleaning girls and I’m telling you—never go near this window!” She bore down on Emma, then snatched the dust rag from her hand. “Did you hear me? Never!”

  “Of course,” Emma murmured. How could she not hear? Her ears were ringing and her mother-in-law sounded like a lunatic. “I’m sorry, Frankie. I didn’t mean to violate one of your rules.”

  Her gaze hardened. “My girls know they’ll be fired on the spot if they do.”

  Emma narrowed her eyes. “You can’t fire me. I’m not one of your cleaning people. I’m a volunteer.” I’m your daughter-in-law. She drew another deep breath. The significance of a single spot on the clean window didn’t register. By now, Emma had had enough.

  “Frankie, I’m tired of watching everything I say, everything I do. We’ve worked well together, mostly, on the party and now the foundation launch, but I’ve also had to hold my tongue. It’s hard enough living here while our kitchen is being fixed—”

  “Because you almost burned down the whole house.”

  Emma’s stomach tightened. Or was that a cramp? “That was careless of me, and for your information I’ll pay for whatever won’t be covered by our home owners’ insurance. The money for repairs won’t come out of our joint accounts, as Christian suggested.”

  “Well, that’s something.”

  “I left a pan on the stove,” Emma said in a tight voice. “Anyone else might have done the same. And yes, I threw water on a grease fire. I knew better and I feel awful about that, but what else can I do now?”

  Emma prayed for strength but she needed to make this clear, not simply leave it like that forbidden smear on Frankie’s window. “Maybe I didn’t have your upbringing—or Christian’s, or even Melanie’s—but I can’t help how I was raised or who my parents were. My mother, at least,” she added. “You know what she always called me, as if it were a joke? Her Big Surprise.” Emma blinked. “We didn’t live in a huge house like this one. I never went to college. I’ve made my own way,” Emma said.
“I’m proud of what I’ve done.”

  “But if you’d been more careful—”

  Emma realized what Frankie meant. Another slow cramp rolled through her abdomen.

  Her gaze went to the window again, to the smudge that had caused Frankie to react so harshly. She looked closer—and made out the image of a small handprint. Just at his height. “Owen,” she murmured. “Oh, Frankie.” Then, “Oh,” she said again, that one word seeming to echo through the large room. “I’m so sorry. How hard his loss must be for you, too, and after you lost your little daughter—”

  Emma moved toward her but Frankie stiffened and turned away. She didn’t acknowledge Emma’s mention of Christian’s sister. Why hadn’t Emma seen the connection before? Emma knew all about suppressing such feelings until they tore you up inside.

  Frankie’s voice trembled. “Because of you, my only grandson—as Christian pointed out yesterday—is gone. In a single instant, from one breath to the next, because you cared more for that business of yours than you did for him—”

  “That’s not true!” Emma cried. “I loved him—you heard Christian’s toast yesterday—with all my heart. It’s broken, Frankie, the same way yours is broken and Lanier’s and Grace’s and all of ours.”

  Frankie merely looked at her in stony silence.

  “I can’t do anything to help you face that other loss, but I lost Owen, too,” Emma said. After a last glance at the window where his palm print stood out in the morning sun with total clarity, as if he’d pressed his hand to the glass only a moment ago, she turned away from her mother-in-law and went out into the hall.

  Yes, she’d destroyed her kitchen. She’d failed with Frankie. Her marriage was probably over. Emma yanked open the front door.

  But she and Frankie had finally said what they had to say.

  * * *

  ON HIS WAY to Mallory Trucking, Christian couldn’t seem to clear his mind. Even behind the wheel of your truck, you’re standing still, Emma had said. Her words, spoken in anger and perhaps despair, were nevertheless true. Maybe she was right and walking out on his job hadn’t worked after all.